Blink of an Eye

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Carmel

Naomi had been petrified, monosyllabic before they took her away. Her face, already pale from being inside so much, was now white as chalk. Don met us at the police station. We weren’t allowed beyond the front desk. They took her down to the custody suite. My work had brought me to police stations on several occasions. I knew the drill. But the fact that this was my daughter being booked in put a completely different slant on it. Phil had closed the shop and come to be with me. We were grateful to see Don, to have someone take charge.

‘I’ll have a pre-interview meeting with the police first,’ he said. ‘They are aiming to talk to her on suspicion of causing death by dangerous driving and they have the blood alcohol results.’

I swallowed, watching Don’s lips, trying to second-guess what he’d say. Wanting the result to be negligible, below the limit, to exonerate Naomi, lift the cloud. To demonstrate that it was an accident, nothing more. Her greatest sin taking the corner too fast. An accident, pure and simple. If she had been drinking, the purity vanished, didn’t it?

‘She was over the limit.’

My heart swooped. Please no. No. The hope melted away. I felt everything get darker.

‘They’ll tell me what they’ve got – the bare bones. Then I’ll see Naomi, advise her and take it from there. We could be a couple of hours. I can ring you?’

We hesitated, but he encouraged us to go. ‘There’s nothing you can do here,’ he said.

Phil was too strung out to go back to work, and my shift didn’t start until four. I rang Suzanne and we went over there.

‘Alex told us she was fine,’ I said to Phil when we were on our way. ‘Oh, Phil. Perhaps she’s got a drink problem? With all that stuff in college and now this. She could have been hiding it from us. From all of us.’

‘She hasn’t the money to drink all that much. We’d have noticed. We’d have seen the evidence, smelled it on her. It’s more likely she just made a serious misjudgement, thinking she could drive having had more than she intended.’

Back then, when she had been drinking in college, I’d tried to work out whether we’d contributed to her unhealthy use of alcohol. Had we not sent clear enough messages, been too tolerant of stories about drunken folly or set a bad example? Alcoholism runs in families, but there’d been none of that as far as I knew in either Phil’s or mine. We didn’t drink to excess, we didn’t drink every day, but booze was a pleasure and part of our socializing.

‘Suzanne was right,’ I said. Oh God. I could feel a band of tension around my skull, and my eyes ached. ‘What’s going to happen, Phil? If she’s convicted?’ I thought of the prisons I knew, of how grim life was inside them. ‘The drink – that’ll add to any jail term.’

Why? demanded a voice in my head; why, why, why? Why had she been so stupid? To risk everything, to take a life for the sake of a couple of drinks.

We were all subdued, our talk desultory as we wandered around the country park near Suzanne’s house, taking turns to push Ollie in his pram. Suzanne hadn’t said much when I told her she’d been right about Naomi drinking, that she was over the limit. Just dipped her head once in acknowledgement, drew in her lips in a little moue of disapproval. I was glad she hadn’t launched into any attack or analysis; I don’t think I could have stood it.

The time stretched out, painfully slow. Phil kept checking his phone as if we’d not all hear it when it rang. Back at Suzanne’s we had a cuppa and some fancy ginger cake she’d bought, and Phil’s phone finally went off, making me jump, splashing some of my drink over the side of the cup.

Phil answered, listened. I saw a spasm of disappointment tighten his face, and then he said, ‘We’ll see you there.’ He put his phone down. ‘They’ve charged her, causing death by dangerous driving.’ He cleared his throat. ‘Released her on bail. They’re going back to the house now.’

‘Oh God,’ Suzanne sighed, and fetched a cloth to mop up my spill.

I got up. There was a roiling sensation in my stomach.

As we reached Mottram Lane, it was afternoon break and the children were running around in the school playground, busy knots of them in powder-blue uniforms.

Charged and released on bail. Words that I’d never imagined hearing in connection with one of my kids.

We reached home at the same time as they did. Phil made tea; we were drinking an inordinate amount of tea. I had switched from coffee not long after the accident when I found myself speeding and jittery and having trouble sleeping.

‘The basis of their case against Naomi is Alex’s eyewitness statement,’ Don said, ‘in which he describes her as driving too quickly and losing control of the car. They also have statements from other witnesses who saw Naomi drinking at the party.’ Suzanne would be one of them. ‘And the results of a blood alcohol test. Naomi had one hundred and fifteen milligrams of alcohol per hundred millilitres of blood – the limit is eighty, so she was almost one and a half times the limit.’

I saw Naomi set her jaw, head down, staring at her hands.

‘That doesn’t alter the charge,’ Don explained. ‘It will be taken into account for sentencing, but I hope we will not reach that point. We gave the police a prepared statement explaining Naomi’s persistent amnesia. We go to the magistrates’ court sometime in the next couple of weeks, but that will simply be adjourned. The prosecution need time to get all the committal papers together. The committal hearing at the magistrates’ is usually within four to eight weeks after the preliminary hearing. If you know all this, with your job, stop me…’ Don looked at me.

‘Some,’ I said.

‘But it’s all new to me,’ Phil said, ‘and Naomi.’

‘Their case rests on Alex’s account, but I don’t know that there’s anything in there that proves,’ and he stressed the word, ‘dangerous rather than careless driving. The amnesia means it isn’t an easy case to fight, but I’d argue it’s not an easy case to prove, either. I’d be very hopeful of being able to reduce the severity of the charge or even get a not guilty result. Though there are no guarantees.’ His confidence was a lifebelt to cling to.

‘There’ll be a jury?’ Naomi asked quietly.

‘That’s right.’

‘Will Naomi be cross-examined?’ I said.

‘It’s up to us in consultation with the barrister who will take the case – I’ve someone in mind for this, he’s excellent. But given that she has no recollection of the incident, I can’t see that there’s anything to gain from putting her on the stand.’

‘What if they think she’s faking it, the jury?’ I said. ‘If she just doesn’t say anything, won’t it look bad?’ Naomi’s amnesia might be seen as very convenient. A deeper, more elaborate version of the replies used by defendants when they don’t want to admit culpability or incriminate themselves. Did you attack first? Can’t remember. Did you use a knife? Can’t remember. Did you shake your child? Can’t remember.

‘The judge must instruct them that nothing adverse can be inferred from her not taking the stand,’ Don said.

But they’re only human – they’re bound to think less of her, surely? I thought.

Don went on, ‘As for the amnesia, we will get expert testimony to speak about this as a medical condition.’

‘We know she’s not making it up,’ Phil said. ‘We just have to make it clear to them that she’s honest.’

‘If they don’t hear from her, how can they see what sort of person she is?’ I asked.

Don nodded. ‘We’ll be calling witnesses to testify to Naomi’s good character, her previous good record and so on. People who will describe her as a diligent driver, a responsible citizen.’

Naomi shuffled at this, a little awkwardly.

Naomi

‘Alex said I was okay to drive.’ I am still muddled, finding it hard to keep up with the discussion.

‘Well, there are two possibilities,’ Mum says. ‘Either you managed to act like you were sober and Alex never gave it a second thought, or…’ She hesitated.

‘Or what?’ I say.

‘Or he got in the car knowing you’d been drinking and took a chance, and then he lied about it.’

‘Why would he lie?’ I say.

‘To protect you, hoping no one would know you’d been drinking, that you’d not actually be over the limit.’

‘Or to protect himself,’ Dad says. ‘Passengers can be charged for that, can’t they?’ He looks at Don.

‘Yes, he could have been prosecuted if he knowingly got in the car with a drunk driver,’ Don says.

‘He wouldn’t have done that,’ I say. ‘He wouldn’t risk it, not when he’s going into the law.’

‘So you put on a good act, then,’ Mum says.

A wave of anger pours through me, anger at myself. ‘Why can’t I remember?’ I hit the table and put my head in my hands. Why did I do it? ‘I wish…’ Oh God. There are too many things to wish for. A whole world of them. ‘Will you ask him?’ I say to Don. ‘Is that part of what you’ll be doing?’

‘Yes, if not before the trial then once he’s on the witness stand. Because if he knew you were drunk, then he is partly culpable: why didn’t he dissuade you from driving? Did he actively encourage you? At the committal hearing we’ll get the whole case file from the prosecution, so at that stage we’ll be looking at where to direct our efforts in building a defence. There’s no point in doing anything very much until we know exactly what they’ve got both from the witnesses and from experts, forensics and so on.’

Whether Alex knew I had been drinking or not, whether he lied to protect me or lied to protect himself for not having the sense to stop me doesn’t really matter compared to the fact that I was drunk and I was driving. Whatever Alex did or didn’t do, I’m the stupid fucker who kept on drinking and then took the wheel. How could I? How could I be so stupid? Why? We could have gone out and got drunk later if it was about celebrating his job. We could have gone to the pub, or bought something to have at home, or gone clubbing even. Why couldn’t I just wait? I am so angry at myself, and not being able to remember the horrible sequence of events, not being able to relive it, leaves me feeling helpless and half mad.

It’s like a storm building inside my skull with nowhere for it to escape. When I finally go upstairs, I thump the bed again and again, cursing myself. Ignoring the physical pain. Full of fury and shame.

Carmel

I rang Suzanne and gave her a quick summary. Then tried to change the subject, invited her to tea one day to suit her. Determined to maintain some semblance of normality.

‘I can’t do it,’ she said. A peculiar tone in her voice.

‘What? What’s wrong?’ Ollie? Can’t wasn’t in her vocabulary.

‘Play happy families, pretend everything’s all right after what she’s done.’

My cheeks burned in a sudden wash of resentment. ‘Nobody’s pretending anything. I’m coming over.’

‘There’s no need,’ she said.

‘Suzanne, we need to talk about this properly,’ I said firmly. ‘I won’t be long.’

Ollie lay on a cotton baby blanket on the living room floor. Eyes alert, darting here and there, then stopping to drink in some fascinating object. She had dressed him in a navy and cream all-in-one.

I knelt down to greet him, feeling a warmth that hadn’t been there before I laid eyes on him. He stiffened with excitement, his eyes gleaming, then waved his feet round, dancing as I made baby noises and told him what a wonderful creature he was.

Suzanne was a little guarded, sitting at the table. When I joined her, I didn’t need to start the ball rolling. She kicked it straight at me. ‘I don’t want to see her.’

‘She’s your sister.’

‘And she’s done something unforgivable. Which she won’t even own up to.’

‘Don’t be stupid!’ My voice rose dangerously. ‘How on earth can she own up to something she can’t remember?’

‘Yes, that’s a great get-out, that is.’

My look must have penetrated, because she hesitated, gave a little toss of her head, as though she was on the defensive, then said, ‘She got drunk and she killed a child. And I look at Ollie and-’

‘Don’t you think she’s being punished enough? She’s being taken to court, her relationship’s over, her health… well, God knows… She might end up in jail. The law is punishing her and we don’t need to.’

‘When I see her… when I look at her…’ Suzanne spoke very precisely, her palms together, fingers pointed at me, resting on the table, moving up and down to the rhythm of what she was saying, ‘I’m just so angry, like I want to hurt her. I don’t like being put in that position, and I won’t do it,’ she said tightly.

‘She’s your sister, we’re all she’s got.’

‘You’re all she’s got.’

‘Suzanne, please.’

She stood up abruptly. ‘No,’ she said. Ollie began to whimper.

‘People ignore us in the street. We’ve enough enemies.’

‘I don’t want to see her and I don’t want her here.’

‘That is so hard.’ I wanted to weep. ‘Have you any idea what this will do to her?’

‘She should have thought of that before she drove the car.’ Suzanne crouched to pick Ollie up. ‘You can make all the excuses you like.’

‘And Ollie? Does she get to see her nephew in this brave new world of yours?’ I wish I hadn’t said the last part, but I was shivering with rage by then, close to losing control.

‘I don’t know,’ she said.

‘Oh, Suzanne.’

‘You and Dad can always come here, if you like.’

I knew I was going to cry then, and I didn’t want to do it in front of her, have her accuse me of emotional blackmail or whatever into the bargain. ‘Right,’ I managed, ‘I’ll go then.’

‘I’m sorry,’ she said at the door, but her expression was defiant, not sorrowful.

‘Yes,’ I said. My throat was dry and swollen; there was terrible pressure behind my breastbone.

I’d hoped things would improve between Suzanne and Naomi once they were grown up and independent. In fact I’d dared to believe they had, especially when Suzanne asked Naomi to be her bridesmaid and Naomi agreed.

When they were little, I’d often pick over their antagonism and rivalry with Phil, with my mother, with Evie, with anyone who’d listen. Was it normal for siblings to be so at loggerheads? Was it because they were girls? Because they were so close in age? What were we doing wrong? How could we reduce the animosity, the incessant squabbling and tears.

We tried various tactics: praising good behaviour, rewarding cooperation, striving to be consistent in how we dealt with their shouting and fighting. We organized it so they could have time with us apart from each other, when they’d enjoy our undivided attention. There was no dramatic improvement.

I could see that as the older child Suzanne was naturally jealous when Naomi came on the scene. But it seemed ridiculous that she’d let that colour the rest of her life. She clearly resented the attention Naomi got through her bad behaviour in those teenage years. But still to maintain that position seemed so churlish. Had I contributed to the dynamic? Reinforced it? Even now, in supporting Naomi as best I could, did Suzanne see that as me taking sides? She was a grown woman; surely she was mature enough to distinguish between support and approval? To understand that trying to help Naomi through the mess she was in was not acting to spite Suzanne. None of it was about Suzanne. Maybe that was the problem.

I drove the car out of their cul-de-sac and then pulled up at the side of the next road to cry. How on earth would Naomi weather this on top of everything else? I felt so sad, deeply sad, like something had been taken from me, leaving me aching and hollow.